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Therese took a year and a half to move in with Carol. In that time they met in utilitarian diners for breakfast, where Carol looked as out of place as a diamond among marbles; ate dinner in restaurants where Carol had to order because Therese couldn’t read anything on the menu; had drinks in bars with wood panelled walls and low soft lighting, so low they had to lean in very close to see each other. Very close indeed. Once they went skating in the park and Carol surprised Therese by falling down more than Therese did.
“I never did learn how to properly use these damn things,” she said, wrapping her arms around for Therese for support. Their breath rose in icy puffs as they skated, very slowly, in a circle. “I wasn’t an athletic type, even as a girl.” She slipped again, cursed, and apologized.
Therese laughed with her face pressed into the shoulder of Carol’s fur. It smelled like her perfume, the one they had anointed each other with that night in the hotel. Cuir de Russie. “It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t mind at all.”
(Later, in bed, Carol told Therese that she was like the snow. “Like the perfectly unbroken snow,” she said, and kissed a line from collarbone to navel.)
Therese went with Carol to Dannie’s birthday party. He had it in his apartment, which was even smaller than Phil’s. People spilled out onto the fire escape, drinking and whooping it up. The music added to the auditory confusion and someone kept changing the record in the middle of songs. Carol wore a grey suit, made of soft wool.
Therese could see that Dannie recognized Carol from the pictures, but he kept a lid on it and extended his hand jovially. “I’m Dannie,” he said, “and I bet Therese hasn’t said a word about me.”
“Then you bet wrong,” Carol said, and shook his hand. “She’s told me all about you. You got her the job at the Times.”
“No way,” he said, “she got herself that job.”
Therese had the odd sensation of two halves of her life coming together, suddenly - oil and water mixing at last. And then Carol let go of Dannie and excused herself to go find a drink and it was over.
“She seems nice,” said Dannie. In the living room something fell over with a crash.
“You’re going to get evicted,” Therese yelled in his ear.
“Worth it,” he shouted back.
Later the crowd thinned as people headed out to get a slice of pizza, some fresh air or most likely, more beer at the liquor store down the street. Therese had lost track of Carol, having been ambushed by some of the guys from work. Dannie noticed as well when their paths crossed in the kitchen. “Where’s your - uh, where’s your Carol?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “She must have - oh, never mind. I think I know.”
The door to the hallway was open. Therese could see the edge of a grey wool dress, a shapely calf, as Carol leaned back against the wall beside the doorframe.
She was having a cigarette and smiled when Therese came out, but looked tired. She had taken her jacket off; it must have been inside, cast over the back of a couch or piled with the others on Dannie’s bed.
“Too loud for you?” Therese asked.
“I’m afraid I make a terrible bohemian,” said Carol. “I’ve lived in domesticity for too long. I kept wanting to do his dishes.”
“He does let them pile up,” said Therese, to see Carol smile again. “I tell him it's unhygienic but he never listens.”
“Men,” said Carol. “Can’t live with them, can’t live without them, except that we do.”
She was nervous, Therese realized. With Carol that only showed around the edges - a slightly frayed smile, more cigarettes than usual. But it was still there. It was her first time meeting any of Therese’s friends.
And what an extraordinary thing, that something could be new and scary to Carol Aird. That Therese could be, with her everyday life.
“We can leave,” said Therese. “I rarely stay long at parties anyway.”
Carol blew out a stream of smoke. “How many times have you gone out with my friends?”
“A few,” said Therese. Carol made sure to include her, though they were all much older than Therese was. She studied Carol’s face, and decided to be honest. “Sometimes they’re pretty boring.”
Carol threw back her head and laughed. Therese thought that laugh sounded like music. “Thank god you said it. Now I don’t have to.”
“Except Abby.”
“No,” said Carol. “Never Abby.” Her eyes were bright and she didn’t look tired anymore.
“So do you want to leave?”
“I don’t,” said Carol, decisively. “I refuse to be defeated.”
She handed Therese the cigarette. Therese took a drag, letting it dangle from her lips like Bogart; this, too, made Carol smile. They went back inside, arm in arm.
They met Abby for lunch at the Algonquin. Some of Carol’s friends made Therese feel tongue-tied, even shyer than she was, like a kid sitting at the table with adults. But somewhere between Illinois and New York she and Abby had come to some kind of understanding with one another. So much so that when Carol excused herself to visit the ladies Abby turned to Therese and asked, seriously, “So. How are things going? Really going, I mean.”
“For her or for me?”
“It’s you I’m asking,” said Abby.
Therese smiled. “Good. Not perfect. But good.” Carol missed having Rindy with her like she would long for a missing limb. There were days - or nights, mostly - when Therese still felt responsible for how things turned out. Carol felt out of place, even old, when she was with Therese’s crowd. They both worked long hours and didn’t see each other as much as they would like. And waking up together was a minor miracle, one that Therese didn’t take for granted, not ever. She had never been so happy. She had never been so alive.
It was all anyone could ask for, really.
“Good is better than perfect,” Abby said. “Perfect can’t last.”
Therese sipped her wine and looked at Abby over the rim of the glass. “So how’s your redhead?”
“Fantastic,” said Abby with a grin. “I get all the free steaks I want.”
Carol’s apartment was big, but not so big that the piano didn’t take up an awful lot of room. “I’m surprised you kept it,” Therese said, the first time she visited. She ran her hand along the keys and hit a note or two.
“Harge doesn’t play,” said Carol. “Besides which - I thought you might like it.”
Therese practiced often. She was losing the stiffness she had picked up from years of not having access to a piano. Carol brought her new music, complicated jazz that she had to pick her way through carefully. They sat side-by-side and played together, their hands crossing over on the keys.
At Christmastime that year Therese set about learning Auld Lange Syne in preparation for New Year’s. A bit cheesy, maybe, but they would be listening to the countdown together and sealing midnight with a kiss. She thought it might be nicer - more personal - than letting the radio play it for them.
Their first holiday season together had been a slapdash affair. It had been hard for Carol, being apart from her daughter. Therese wanted to make it better this time around.
She stopped when Carol came through the door with packages from her shopping, an overnight bag, and Rindy.
She couldn’t help it; she stared. Rindy didn’t seem to notice anything amiss; she waved cheerfully. “I remember you,” she said. “You’re Mommy’s friend, from the store.”
“I am,” said Therese, recovering. “But I work for a newspaper now.”
“Do you write lots of stories?” Rindy asked. “I do, but mine are all made up.”
“I take pictures,” said Therese. “And I help decide which ones go into the paper.”
Carol handed Rindy the bag and smoothed down her hair, which was lifting with winter static. “Sweetheart, go pack your things away in your room. Like I showed you.”
Rindy ran off, skipping every second step with bag bouncing against the floor. “So,” said Therese. “Does Harge -”
“He knows,” said Carol. “We need to get her back by Christmas Eve, but we can have her until then.”
We, thought Therese. She was a bit lightheaded. We.
They opened their presents the morning of Christmas Eve. Carol told Rindy that Santa came early in deference to her unique living situation. They ate gingerbread men from their stockings for breakfast and Rindy played with the yo-yo that Therese got her. It had been a panic gift, bought the day before, but she gave every impression of loving it.
Carol handed Therese a small package wrapped in gold paper. “I hope you like it,” she said. “I made an assumption.”
There were two things in the box: a bottle of perfume, and a house key. The perfume smelled like violets and iris, fresh and cool like the air after a rain shower. It was wistful and beautiful.
“Apres l’Ondee,” said Carol. “It reminded me of you.”
“I love it,” Therese said. One hand curled around the key; the other reached out for Carol. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”